Hell And Back
by MaryCamille
Summary: Dean returns from Hell and is plagued by his memories, but he keeps quiet about them. He's not about to burden his brother with his load. Besides, how would breaking down help? That's what got him here in the first place. Set in season four. One-shot.


**Hey, everyone! I haven't been able to write much recently, because I've been writing insane amounts of essays for my AP English class, so I thought I'd upload a few of the drabbles on my phone for y'all to read while you're waiting for a "Five Phone Calls" update, or just if you'd like to read some more of my stuff :) I wrote these a while back, so enjoy 'em!**

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><p>As Dean stared at the ceiling of the dark motel room, he heard barking outside. His heart beat a little faster at the sound and unwanted memories filled his mind. Unconsciously, his hand slid under his pillow and grasped the plastic handle of the silver knife he kept there for safety.<p>

Dean closed his eyes with a heavy sigh and pulled his hands to his face to rub his tired eyelids. He rolled onto his side. The old bed frame creaked beneath him.

The glowing red numbers on the digital clock placed on the bedside table informed Dean that it was 1:13 AM. Unable to sleep, his eyes searched the room for something to look at. The glowing light on Sam's computer got brighter before dimming repeatedly, and Dean found it to be the most interesting thing in the room, which certainly said something about how intriguing his surroundings were... Or exactly how boring they were.

As much as he fought it, he couldn't stop the memories from flooding his brain as the dog outside began to bark again. It reminded him of the hungry growls and barks of the hell hounds.

He thought of Hell. He remembered the torture. The pain. Wearing away, piece by piece, bone by bone, as he was tortured mercilessly. His body ached at just the thought of it.

But the memories that inevitably followed hurt far more than the first. He remembered surrendering. Of course he remembered it. And he remembered when the blade was finally removed from his body, only to be placed in his hand so that he could torture someone himself. But the worst part was the fact that he had enjoyed it.

Dean's head was pounding and throbbing, and he could hear the blood whooshing in his ears. He got up from the bed and stumbled slightly when the room tilted at an angle it shouldn't have. Walking towards the small kitchen, he stubbed his toe on the dresser, and cursed aloud.

"Dean?" he heard his brother say from behind him. "Dean, you okay?"

Dean opened the bag he'd left on the table and searched for the bottle of pain-killers he knew was in it. When he found it, he struggled to get it open. Sam had gotten up and was standing beside him and, after a few seconds, took the bottle from Dean's hands. He opened it and poured a few of the pills into his palm, offering them to Dean immediately.

Dean took them with a muttered, "Thanks," and swallowed them quickly. He closed his eyes and steadied himself by gripping the sides of the table.

"Here," Sam said, pulling a chair out for Dean to sit in. He did, and the pressure in his head began to subside just barely.

Sam sat down in a chair next to his brother and watched him worriedly. Dean's head was in his hands and his shoulders were slumped forwards. He had a feeling he knew what was bothering his older brother.

"You wanna talk about it?" Sam asked.

"Not really," Dean replied.

"It might help." Sam only wanted to help Dean, but his curiosity was also itching profusely, and he wanted to know about what had happened to Dean.

Dean kept silent for a few minutes, and Sam felt as if he might be getting somewhere. "Go back to bed, Sammy." Sam's hopes fell.

It was strange. Sam had grown up his entire life looking up to Dean. Dean was always there for him, and he was always the best big brother Sam could've imagined. With a kick-ass, give 'em Hell attitude, and a softer side he didn't usually show, Dean had become Sam's role model. He loved him more than anyone else, and he would do anything for him, and he knew Dean felt the same way about him.

After Dean had returned from Hell, however, it was obvious that he had changed drastically. Sleepless nights, a more sensitive attitude, and a slightly jumpy demeanor had plagued Dean, and Sam only wanted to understand. He wished there was some way he could help, but he knew that Dean wasn't going to open up about it anytime soon; that is, if he ever did decide to.

Dean ran a hand through his short hair and sighed.

"Can't I do something to help? Don't you need anything?" Sam asked. "Food, maybe? Or a beer? There has to be something I can do."

"I doubt there are any burger joints open at 2 AM," Dean said, trying to lighten the mood slightly, but failing.

Sam frowned. "I'm sure I could find something. Do you want me to-"

"Sam," Dean cut him off with a stern voice. "I'm fine." He looked up into his brothers eyes. "Go back to bed, you've done enough."

"Dean, I haven't done anything," he disagreed.

"You've done more than you know," Dean said, straightening up. "Get back to bed before I have to kick your ass back over there, Sam."

Sam hesitated.

"I swear, I just need a minute. I'll be fine," Dean revised his previous sentence.

"Whatever," Sam shrugged. "Fine." He got up and walked back to his bed. He laid back down and settled into the blankets once more.

Dean watched his little brother lie back down and pursed his lips. "Hey, uh... Thanks, Sammy."

"Don't mention it," Sam said before rolling over and closing his eyes. "You'd do the same for me."


End file.
